When Iron Breaks
by Thinkette
Summary: "She whispered. "I love you." 'I shouldn't. I shouldn't. Oh god, what have you done to me'" She was cracking, unwinding. Twenty years of this broken loneliness. Sometimes things fracture. And other times, they shatter. Timeskip.


If there was one thing she wanted, one thing she NEEDED, it was him. It was why she pulled out every stop, why she managed to pull her body up on shaking arms to grab the dirt with her palms and gulped down her bloody spit. It was why she breathed heavy and CRAWLED to the dead body, took the rations, took the medicine, and willed herself to survive. He shattered the bones in her legs, he sliced her stomach open, she was bleeding out, and she could not go farther even if she tried.

She found herself coughing up pink and red, she leaned against the tree, desperate for sleep, but too scared that she wouldn't wake up. As a kunoichi, she should have accepted the fact that one day, she would die, and that the best way would be to protect Suna. She was thirty three years of age now, old by ninja standards. She knew she wore it on her face, her frown lines and worried eyes. It was expected of her to die soon, she should. Those in Suna who were shinobi rarely saw the age of twenty-five, let alone their thirties. She should die, it would be easy.

But she refused to die. She had spent too many nights wrapped in his arms, too many moments panting into his neck. She had too many deep conversations with him, as he gazed at the clouds and had his fingers intertwined with hers. And it was all she could keep herself alive on. She coughed into her clothes, praying that rain would not come. She knew that if anything lethal, a hungry animal, a shinobi, even a civilian with a grudge came to find her, she would die. She did not want to die.

Only alive through the small strand of hope that he had not died, she lay against that stupid tree, thinking and willing, commanding herself to stay awake, stay alive, stay lucid.

But then the thoughts came. What if he died? Shikamaru was too good of a man not to sacrifice himself. He thought of life as a game of shogi, as an endless battle. She often wondered what role he truly fit. The knight, with its quiet strength and surprising range, the pawn, as only another piece in the game of life, small and insignificant, or the master, he who controls them all.

She saw him take all of these roles. He was willing to give his life up, like a pawn. Willing to defend, like a knight. And able, willing, and suited to be the one behind the plans. Oh, how she wished that was what he was. Safe, somewhere, thinking up plans to keep his allies safe. But no, he was too soft, too unwilling to be insignificant. He had long since passed his novice days, now thirty years old exactly. Old, like her. Unmarried, like her. Childless, dateless, without a wedding ring. Like her. But he never backed down, never, and even if he had no loving arms to run back to, he still had plenty to lose. But he refused to take the easy way out, now, still lazy but completely sharp and alert, too experienced to simply say that they would be okay without him.

Even he had his pride.

But Temari did not like it. She did not like his worth, hated that others noticed it. Saw him take on more lethal missions, and suddenly, grew to hate that feeling in her gut when they separated, that fear that he could die this time, and she would truly lose him. Temari was not stupid. She was strong, whipped into shape by the hard climate of her childhood, she had no silly fantasies and no ridiculous, soft plans. She was born into the role of a protector, and she would give her life for it. So why now, as she could die, take the easy way out, did she think of Shikamaru and not Suna? Not Gaara or Kaknuro, but the lazy boy she came to spend her nights with.

Why and when did she allow herself to get this soft?

She hated herself in those moments. She did not love him. She repeated it in her head like a mantra. Shinobi do not love, they kill, they fight, they follow orders. They are thugs for hire, miserable beings that floated in the world of death so they could keep the civilians, their homes, alive. Temari was willing to die, she did not care. Suna drilled it into her, that though their shinobi were few, if they must die for the good of the village, they should.

But she wouldn't. She wouldn't die for her village. She did not want to die. She was a seasoned killer, a strong fighter, a motherless daughter, a guardian more than a sibling. She had no father, she had no happy childhood memories.

Damn it all, she wanted to be happy for once in her life, and not in the way that she was happy that she lived another day when she defeated an enemy, or happy in the way that she got a compliment, or received respect and honor. She wanted to be truly happy, truly loved.

For a while, she thought she didn't deserve it. She was a killer, a machine, a simple weapon, useful, but disposable. She was not beautiful, she was coarse and not feminine, a true shinobi. She didn't expect anyone to love her romantically. She told herself that even when she was a child, after she burned the fairytale books her mother read to her on her tenth birthday.

Temari did not believe in love. She believed in relief, in release and comfort. She believed in loyalty and hard work, payback and revenge. So when she hit that age when she wanted, she found the only man who could understand the complexity of her situation.

Shikamaru never told her he loved her, he never held her hand. They had sex, and never said each others names. But he and she both knew that there was a reason she picked him from all the men she could have graced. He did not protest, he did his job as all shinobi do, and she did not love him.

Still, she couldn't deny the ridiculous happiness that bloomed in her belly when he found her, bloody and bruised, in desperate need of medical attention, laying against that tree next to a rotting body. She saw his eyes look relieved and then hardened, he picked her up in one motion, and ran to Konoha like a man possessed.

She did not love him.

Even as he whispered to her. She knew she was on the brink, her head was bobbing, she couldn't stay lucid. She knew if she slept, she would never awaken. He knew it too. He did not cry, he was too hardened for that. But he muttered, over and over, for her not to die. Eventually, he became desperate, he told her he couldn't live without her, he'd go on suicide missions, he would follow her where she went, he was willing.

She was too blood worn to protest, she was too scared to make any movement. He told her she would make it, that he hated her for giving him a scare, that she better survive. He grew angry, tears finally starting to leak in his eyes. He said he'd never forgive her if she died, she'd ruin his life, he'd never be able to stand it.

And finally, he said it, as they were right at the gates, as the medical team took one look at them, both bloody, Shikamaru with an arm whose bones were practically shattered, struggle to carry a dying Temari without collapsing.

He loved her, he begged, finally, pleading with her to live, to stay with him, not to leave. And Temari saw the medical team run at them, and felt Shikamaru drop down to the ground but never letting her fall, felt warm chakra, and hot tears, and slipped away, no longer afraid that she would not wake up.

Because when she did, there were flowers everywhere. In vases by her bed, pinned to the walls with kunai in bunches, and individually with thumbtacks. Some with tape, and they were everywhere, in different colors of white and pink, red and orange, green leaves and not a single inch of white hospital wall was peaking through. She saw him, asleep, in a chair, that she later found out he'd occupied for a week, with only ten to twenty minute breaks to shower in the bathroom jointed with her room, or eat, or do other rituals that were required to live. He read to her, she learned later from Ino. Both to keep himself occupied and to make his voice known to her.

She did not love him. She repeated it like a mantra, and she stopped midway when his eyes opened, and she saw his deep pools of brown. She saw the gray flecks and the golden highlights, she saw the black and the mocha, but she also saw the hurt, the relief, and the adoration. He looked at her like she was the most important thing to him.

And he did not care that she was a kunoichi, or that she was troublesome. He did not care who her brothers or father were, he only saw her, and in his eyes, she saw the raw feeling of absolute release, the genuine happiness. He was ragged, his hair was a mess, his arm in a sling. He had bandages everywhere, on his legs and neck, winding down into his shirt, bags were under his eyes, he looked tired and spent, but not ugly, not even unattractive. Only manly, rugged, appealing, she determined.

"You carried me." She said. Not a question, just a statement, just a fact. "Why?"

"I couldn't lose you." He said, simple and honest, raw and plain. He did not hide it, he was through pretending. "You could have died."

"I should have. It would have been a great honor. Now I'm damaged, almost useless. Imagine if I had lost a limb."

"I would rather not. You will heal, you are still a ninja."

"It will takes months to recover."

"Who gives a damn?" His voice was angry, and she was surprised. He looked unhinged, and broken. "Who gives a damn how long it takes you to heal as long as you do? Don't you understand, I don't care if you're a ninja, you're a person. You're a woman! I won't have you die on me, I can't have you die on me! Don't you know how much you mean to me, you troublesome pain in my ass, don't you? I've loved you for years, I don't give a single fuck how long it takes you to recover! I JUST WANT TO SEE YOU BREATHING UNTIL THE DAY I DIE!" And he panted, his breaths deep, his face red.

And Temari could not lie anymore when she saw him like this, passionate and driven, and almost desperate, she did love him. She had for a while, but they were ninja, tools. She felt pieces of her start unhinging, years upon years of battlefields, trauma she hid because she could not show it, loneliness and sorrow springing up in her.

Tools did not love, tools could not love, they could not feel. And yet, here she was, facing him, falling to pieces. He dipped his head down, wrapped one arm around her, his forehead resting on her shoulder. She was stroking his hair, crying silently, too proud to let out a single noise. Her arms, thankfully saved, grabbed his loose locks, held onto him for support.

She was breathing hard, clutching him, too scared to do anything else. Her legs felt numb, the bones would fix themselves with the help of medics, Shikamaru's arm was exactly like her legs. But she was scared, not of dying, not anymore when she saw the room and saw him. No, not of dying.

She whispered. "I love you." 'I shouldn't. I shouldn't. Oh god, what have you done to me?'

She chanted it, over and over, as they cried, as they clutched each other, as they finally let it out. She did not want to die, she always wanted to be normal, to have a family, have a man who genuinely loved her for who she was. And he was burrowing his face in her neck, his hot breath on her skin, and her tears dripped down her face onto him, and she felt his on her collarbones, and god damn it all, she loved him.

So much.

Weakly, his good hand clawed at the bed, and finally, they were both spent. They still clutched each other. They refused to let go.

But they both knew neither of them would resign, both knew that the break they got now would be spent healing and training. Somehow, though, Temari was thankful for that day. She was appreciative of the fact that he said it first, that he gave her something genuine and unconditional, endless and raw. She knew he would not lie, and she prayed that their alliance lasted, she prayed he would not die, and then she prayed that she wouldn't either.

She was rocking, back and forth, finally stopping her chant. Suddenly, she was saying she couldn't, that he should leave. And with the only courage he had (for even he admitted that he was a coward sometimes), he looked her in the face, right into her eyes.

"Tools cannot love, Temari….we….we know that. But we do…we're not kunai, we're not shuriken, not poison gas or giant fans…we're people…people love." She shook her head, desperate to get away. She was trying to shove him with her hands, but she was weak, and he was determined. "I love. I know YOU love. Stop fighting…please….please stop fighting, for once, just….just this once, don't fight me…"

And she was sniffling, and sobbing, the first time she had since she was seven, and she grabbing him again, and his eyes closed.

"Don't die, never die. Don't leave me alone here."

"I won't, I won't. I promise." He said, consoling her like one would a child. He stroked her hair with his one good arm, he rested his cheek on the top of her head. She cried into his shoulder, cried herself to sleep. And Shikamaru got up after that, he took a shower, he shaved and dressed in clean clothes. He ate, he brushed out his hair but left it down. Ino came and delivered more flowers.

"I don't know why you keep telling me to bring them…she has enough."

She watched him as he pinned them up, over her headboard, and replacing the ones that had died.

"At first…it was just to keep myself busy…but I want her to see it. I just…want her to feel like a woman for once, not just a ninja." And Ino, with all her beauty wished that she had a man who loved her like Shikamaru loved Temari. Unconditionally and even when it hurt, he did not stop. She wished that Temari knew, and that she didn't refuse him. He knew her, more so than her brothers, almost as well as she knew herself.

He knew she didn't feel like a girl. "I'll pay you back-"

"Don't bother…we've been friends for years. It's free, just clean up when you're done."

"It must cost a fortune for you, though."

"Not really, I bring in the ones about to die anyway." She said, and they both knew she was lying. But he accepted, and looked at Temari with a tenderness she had not expected. Ino glanced away, up at the ceiling and saw that he had put the flowers there too. She made her way out silently, and peaked in one last time before she closed the door, only to see a single rose petal fall from the ceiling and spiral its way down to Temari's cheek, and Shikamaru sat down again, determination written on him plain as day, and grabbed her hand, tight and comforting, fingers intertwined together.

She saw their outlines, her curves defined by the white hospital sheet, his clean lines crisp through his clothes. She saw the man she could have had but let slip away, she saw the most loyal man in all of Konoha stand by a foreign ninja's bed, cloaked in with shadows and a million flowers, bandaged and bruised, broken in several places. She saw how he was letting her heal, willing to heal her himself, willing to be the glue that kept her together even if she refused.

She closed the door, the soft click resonating through her brain, and smiled.

_Everyone knew they'd make it through._

* * *

**I know what you're thinking, OOC? I couldn't help it! And hey, at 33 years old, being a killing machine and seeing everyone else get married and be happy, the guy you love in your reach and knowing you'll die soon, I imagine anyone would break. As for the title, I always saw Temari as this uber powerful female, and I can relate to her a lot. She did have to grow up really fast, and she completely dedicated herself to Suna because she had nothing else to attach herself to. I like seeing her unhinge, I like her depth.  
**


End file.
